


Haphephilia

by Nyanoka



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Character Study, Established Relationship, Hand & Finger Kink, Height Differences, M/M, Secret Relationship, Size Difference, Touching, Voice Kink, erotic asphyxiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23021485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: Victor and Piers try something new tonight, and actions lead to contemplation.
Relationships: Nezu | Piers/Masaru | Victor
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	Haphephilia

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not going lie. Much like the Ashe/M!Byleth fic I wrote, this one was also partially written because of spite. That and there is no Piers/Victor content, and I want to rectify that since it's my favorite of the SWSH pairs. I actually flipped a coin as well on whether it was going to be SFW or NSFW (and it ended up on Tails for NSFW ofc).
> 
> I also considered Leon/Victor and Raihan/Victor, but those have content, Piers/Victor doesn't so...
> 
> Also please ignore the dialect mistakes. I looked at Piers's dialogue, and he cuts his "-ing"s and a few other words, but I decided to wing it a bit. Similarly, I'm not even gonna try to be British or from the Isles because I'll butcher it.
> 
> And finally, please ignore the strange choice for narrative tone. It's my self-indulgent stuff. Victor could simply just be precocious. I left his age intentionally vague since the only "clue" you have is that he's still younger. There's no definite age. It could be simply be a few months in the post-game or a few years after the events of SWSH. I have my own personal idea, but I prefer to keep it vague for the reader.

“Victor, ‘old still. I don’t wanna accidently hurt you,” Piers mumbles. The pads of his fingers tap lightly upon the flesh of Victor’s neck near the nape, and his pale, bare palms rest underneath Victor’s chin.

Victor fidgets, shifting his weight slightly and disturbing the sheets underneath them further before stilling once more. He couldn’t move all too much, not with Piers, stripped of most of his normal garments, looming above and almost sitting upon his bare chest. Piers, despite his almost-waifish lankiness, is still a full-grown man. He is over a head taller and nearly thirty pounds heavier than him.

Not that Victor minds all too much. There is a certain appeal to their current situation and to their physical differences, and he isn’t all too inclined toward the idea of moving or pushing the man off.

Piers’s fingers continue their rhythmic tapping, callouses rubbing against Victor’s unmarred skin. Like the heavy thrum of a cathedral’s organ keys, Victor feels the hum of his own heartbeat and the quickened thrum of his blood flowing. Overhead, the ceiling fan whirls along, contributing its wispy tune.

However, Piers’s tapping doesn’t quite match Victor’s heartbeat. Victor doesn’t know what song it is—Piers always had some melody or another on his mind—but he understands the implications well enough. Piers couldn’t quite keep still when he was nervous.

Perhaps it could be seen as an obnoxious sort of habit to tolerate, but Victor doesn’t mind all too much.

It was simply another of Piers’s quirks that he had come to expect.

A creak sounds from the bed as Piers shifts, easing his weight further off Victor’s body and more onto his knees. It is a courtesy of sorts, and Victor appreciates the sentiment. It hadn’t been Piers’s full weight at all, but, nonetheless, it is a thoughtful gesture. Victor thinks so anyway.

“You sure ‘bout this? I didn’t think you’d actually agree to it.”

Victor nods before giving a small smile. “I’m sure. I wouldn’t have said yes otherwise.”

A small hum then. “Alright. Just tap my wrist if you want to stop. I won’t mind if you kick me either. Just tell me. Don’t push yourself too much.”

“I will,” Victor promises.

“Alright.”

And with that, Victor feels the edges of Piers’s painted nails graze the sides of his neck before moving down to his collarbone. The cool acrylic presses gently against warmed flesh, and the edges—immaculately trimmed and maintained—prod against the bone. It isn’t enough to hurt or to break the delicate skin. The touch only serves to remind him of their connection—flesh upon flesh, breath intermingling with breath, and voice laid upon voice.

Idly, Victor notes the paleness of Piers’s hands and the thinness of his fingers. Perhaps it is a strange sort of thing to notice now, but they have always fascinated him: the breadth of his palms—much larger than his own—the length of the fingers, a pianist’s for certain; and the dark ovals of his nails that sink perfectly into the pale flesh.

There are many things that he notices about Piers.

Underneath the bedroom’s lights, he notices how the veins run underneath the white, like miniature rivers in winter. It is a different sort of paleness, unlike the ghastly white he sees when Piers performs, face illuminated by the harsh concert lights and hands wrapped firmly around his mic. It is different from the moments when they sit alone together, and Piers plays the piano or perhaps the guitar. It always varies by his mood.

On those occasions, his hands, his fingers, are in motion, frenzied as a beast yet oddly purposeful.

Tonight, they trace along his collarbone, rough fingertips and rounded nails rubbing circles.

Eventually, they trail back to his neck, fingers on the nape, thumbs resting just underneath the chin, and palms resting against the sides and atop the shoulders. It is a soft touch, easy and with a loosened grip. Pressed against tissue and muscle, the callouses tickle the skin, feather-light and scratchy.

Victor feels the breath in his chest and the slight shake of his own body. Piers isn’t large—he isn’t bulky like Leon—but he is still bigger, older and stronger, than Victor. His Rillaboom and Obstagoon are both inside their Poké Balls alongside the others, and those were all tucked into his backpack in the corner.

It is a natural response, one inherent to and expected of any living being. He feels the hum of his own heartbeat, the rush of blood, and the faint heat that emits from Piers’s hands. There is a hint of sweat to the palms, and it dampens his neck and mingles with his own.

Warm—his hands are warm and rough. And in them, he trembles. He feels like one of the birds that he often sees on his mother’s cooking shows.

Weak, weak, vulnerable.

Prey, prey, not predator.

Piers could easily strangle him now if he wished—not as one of their games but as a reality—but he wouldn’t. Victor knows Piers well enough.

Victor glances at Piers’s eyes, cloudy blue and half-lidded. Without the tinge of eyeshadow, he looks younger—less like his public persona and more like the Piers only he knows. Although, he could not say that Piers was any less menacing without his makeup, not with the hands held around his neck.

There would be no appeal then.

Still, they’re slow today—less frisky and more sensual though no less touchy—but Victor doesn’t mind all too much. It is nice enough to simply exist as they are—hands upon flesh and heartbeat and breath mixed with the whistling of the fan and creak of the bed.

It is simplistic even as it ends.

He feels the light pinprick of tightening fingers and he almost jolts, but Piers’s hands still him easily enough. It is neither overly forceful nor overly feeble. It is an average—firm—touch in all senses of the word.

Like the blur of afternoon traffic, Victor feels a particular breathlessness as the air leaves his lungs and the blood of his arteries slow to a crawl _. Is this what Piers feels after a long concert?_ he wonders faintly. He feels his throat contract, a slight rasp and a near-noisy moan only half-heard by himself. His words come in half-pieces, compositions unfinished and moronic. Hazily, he makes out his own words, a mixture of pleas, whimpers, and names.

He squirms, pushing his lower body—he couldn’t move anything else, not with Piers atop of him—upwards. He feels a hardness, Piers’s, as his body rises.

Though, he isn’t sure when his hands had moved, grasping at Piers’s thin wrists. His nails graze at the protruding wrist bones, at the slight jut of winding, blue veins, and at the hard joints and slender digits. As his fingers scratch at Piers’s hands, he feels a smear of wetness, a consequence of the trickle of his own saliva.

Breath, Breath, _Breath_. Those are the words he ends up repeating in his head.

It feels like an eternity, like waiting in Rose Tower’s elevator as it ascends, but truly, it had only been a few seconds, no more than fifteen at most.

Finally, he feels Piers’s grip loosen before releasing entirely, and with it, Victor breaths, inhaling sharply. Afterwards, he feels a weight lift off, and he sits up.

“Well, that went better than expected. You okay?”

“Yeah. Ah, sorry though.”

From his spot on the bed, Piers rubs at the markings on his hands, thin ridges of redden flesh from where Victor had scratched him. He hadn’t broken the skin, but the redness contrasts sharply with their previous pristineness. He had caused that—when Piers’s hands had wrapped around his neck.

He feels another pang below.

“It’s ‘ine.” Piers rubs at the mark closest to the left wrist bone. “I can take care of it later. It doesn’t sting all too much.”

He pauses for a moment and glances at Victor.

“I can take care of that real quick though.”

Oh right. Victor nods, mind still wandering.

Piers reaches over, hooking a finger into the waistband of Victor’s boxers and pulls downward until it slips off, and Victor shivers. Whether it is from the chill of the air or the movement itself, Victor isn’t quite sure.

“Is a handjob all ‘ight? Though if you want, we can do somethin’ el—”

“Yes,” he blurts out, and Piers’s eyebrows raise slightly.

“Bit excited today, aren’t ya?” There is a hint of amusement in his voice.

Victor reddens, but he speaks anyway.

“C-can you”—it’s still embarrassing to ask even after all this time—”fuck me?”

“Mhmhm. Just pass me the lube and co—”

“And can you use your hands again? Please?”

His face reddens further, and he hopes Piers understands his meaning. It’s foolish—a consequence of his age perhaps—but he still has difficulty asking about these sorts of matters.

He sees a hint of surprise in Piers’s eyes before it disappears, replaced by a peculiar eagerness.

“Sure.”

And with that, Piers leans over, and Victor can smell the fragrance of his body. Despite his earlier shower, the scent of nearly-day-old lavender cologne and the citrusy notes of his hairspray linger like ghosts, mingling with the physical, present stench of sweat and excitement. As his face and breath draw nearer, he catches the faint, sweet whiff of Pecha—a consequence of the gum Piers had chewed earlier. It delights his nose and his chin.

Like the playing of piano keys, Piers’s fingers press into the nape of his neck: deft, sure, and gentle. He feels a pull forward, and he sinks into the melody of the room: the whirl of the fan, the incessant beating of their hearts, and the quiet, quickened breath—each airy sprig dying and growing with each fall and rise of their chests.

And he feels the caress of lips and then the prodding of a slippery tongue. Thankfully, their teeth don’t clatter together—he’s still embarrassed by that—nor do their noses bump awkwardly. It is an understandable sort of inexperience if one were to consider Victor’s newness to the world of romantics and his age, but still, it is an embarrassment in his eyes.

He is the reigning Champion, Zamazenta’s partner, and so many other things. And yet, he finds himself embarrassed by things he shouldn’t.

But, he opens his mouth anyway, and he feels a warmth push in and calloused fingers running along the back of his neck—rough against smooth and hard against tender. He imagines that this is what a Sharpedo’s skin feels like. A noise, muffled, escapes him when he feels the fingertips of Piers’s free hand pinch at his nipples. The acrylic of his nails are still cool against Victor’s chest as his fingertips move across the fair flesh, between the pink nipples, and even down the sides of Victor’s body.

Tonight, he feels a playfulness emanate. Some movements are simply for the sake of touching, and others are to tease.

He feels the unbound waves of Piers’s hair, lacking in its normal stiffness, between his fingers when he reaches up with his hands and combs through the black and white strands. It is straight tonight, lacking in the intentional, curated messiness of his public self.

Despite the fan above and the coolness of the nighttime air, he is warm, and he becomes warmer still when Piers draws their bodies closer until Victor is on his lap, and their chests meet. He is small, and he feels smaller still when pressed together like this—skin against skin and with a clothed hardness straining against his rear. He feels his own hardness, wet and leaking, push against Piers’s toned stomach.

Eventually, they separate, and Victor feels the other’s tongue slide from the corner of his bottom lip and down his chin before it stops on his neck. Teeth nip gently at the flesh, just enough to tease rather than to hurt or to seriously mark, and he feels the heat of Piers’s mouth as he begins to suck at the area, his tongue lapping at the soon-to-be-blemished skin.

Victor pants, his hands still threaded in the softness of Piers’s hair. The sensation is nice—comforting even—but he would have to wear a scarf again tomorrow. Tomorrow would be like clockwork. Hop would question him on the scarf—he doesn’t normally wear scarfs despite Galar’s weather—before dropping the matter once more.

Victor feels a shift underneath him as Piers moves, shifting carefully as to not drop him. His head his still buried in Victor’s neck, and stray strands of his hair tickle Victor’s nose—citrus and lavender. To his embarrassment, a disappointed, unintentional sigh leaves his mouth when Piers’s hand; the one on his chest, leaves.

However, he feels another pang in his groin when he hears the sound of a drawer opening and the familiar sound of a rummaging hand.

“Still doin’ fine?”

The words are hushed even as Piers stops his activities and lifts his lips slightly from Victor’s neck. The familiar purple blooms from where he leaves.

Victor nods his yes, and he can feel the curve of Piers’s lips as he smiles.

“Good.”

The sound of rummaging had stopped by then, and Victor feels his heart clench, and his breath quicken further. It is embarrassing, and he’s thankful for the pre-existing redness of his cheeks and Piers’s lack of commentary.

Behind him, he hears the familiar pop of a cap, the slight gush of a liquid, and the crinkle of foil before Piers shifts once more, and the hand on his neck leaves. He couldn’t be quite as disappointed this time, not with his own anticipation.

There are not many words left to say when he feels cold, slender fingers prod at his rear, and the gentle press of Piers’s lips against his neck—at a different spot this time. There is no nipping teeth or playful, lapping tongue this time. He only feels the smoothness of Piers’s lips—un-chapped unlike his own.

Soft, warm, smooth.

The feelings badger—drum at—at his heart even as a noise escapes him, a result of Piers’s other actions below.

Another finger pushes inside him, and Victor squirms and pushes downward until Piers’s other hand stops him, gently grabbing at his arm. Against his shoulder, he feels the coolness of foil, held in-between two of Piers’s fingers, and it riles him, quickens his heartbeat impossibly further.

He is dizzy—breathless—in a way that exhilarates him. It feels like the first time he rode his own Corviknight instead of taking one of the taxis.

He pants, breath coming in puffs and whispers, and Piers’s hair tickles his nose. Victor trembles, and he feels Piers’s lips move against his skin—not in the motion of teasing but of speaking. He cannot understand them, not as murmured as they are, and yet—he does.

It is in moments of now—the way Piers’s hand circles his arm, kind yet firm, and in how their bodies meet, intimate and completely known to only them. It is in their moments together—now, earlier, and tomorrow. It exists in the late-night calls, hidden entirely from his mother in the dark of his room; in the moments when they meet and lie underneath the stars and upon the grassy fields, and in the mundane matters of life—when they make dinner together in Piers’s kitchen, when they laugh together at some silly joke or some other tomfoolery, and so many other things. It makes Victor’s heart burst to think about.

He only has a few more years to wait.

He feels a noise leave him, akin to the trilling of a newborn bird, when Piers’s fingers push against a particular spot. Even if he couldn’t hear Piers’s voice, he can feel the wave of satisfaction that rolls off the man. Victor feels the fingers shift—curling and prodding—until they still and exit. It leaves him with an empty sort of feeling until Piers speaks.

“We’re goin’ to move a lil’ bit now, alright?”

Piers had lifted his face slightly. His breath, still tinged by sweetness, tickles the smooth skin of Victor’s neck.

Victor nods. He couldn’t do much else. He couldn’t trust himself not to stutter, girlish and betraying his youthfulness away.

And with that, they shift once more until Piers is on his back—head upon the pillows—and with Victor kneeling over, Piers’s clothed hips in-between his knees.

Much like Piers had done before, Victor hooks his finger into the other’s waistband and pulls downward, revealing the groin and dark, coarse hairs. His own motions aren’t as graceful as Piers’s had been, but he is impatient.

He hears the tear of foil finally and the slight stretch of the condom. It is a near-silent affair, but he notices the slight shake of Piers’s hands, lined by fading red, as he pulls it on. Even Piers doesn’t voice it, it is a shared excitement.

His motions are hurried as he grabs the lube, cap still ajar, from the nightstand, and he ignores the huff of amusement from Piers. The liquid is cool on his hand as he squeezes the bottle before discarding it somewhere on the bed—or perhaps the floor. He isn’t quite sure, and they could always clean up in the morning or afterwards. It had been near-empty anyway. At the very least, it wouldn’t leak onto the flooring.

His slick hands wrap around the covered shaft of Piers’s member, and he moves, eliciting a groan from Piers. Naturally, because of the latex, he couldn’t feel the flesh underneath or the slight bulge of the veins but he does feel the throb of blood and the ache of his own groin, still dripping.

Even with his relative inexperience, he tries his best to coat it.

Eventually, his hands still and, he feels a pair of hands cover his own hips, and a thrill enters his already crowded heart. He is eager—so very eager—when they begin to align themselves. And he voices it when Piers enters, and his rear slides downward before settling on the base and atop the curling, dark hairs.

A soft rasp leaves his throat, decorated with a pearl of bruised violet, and he feels the hands on his hips leave before wrapping once more around his neck like a band of iron around a tree trunk. Though perhaps, that isn’t quite right. It isn’t stifling as such. Instead, his fingers circle firmly around the throat, just enough for Victor to feel both the suppleness and the callouses of the digits and palms. By itself, it isn’t enough pressure to constrict his airways.

Piers’s voice, accompanied by the fan’s whirling, comes quickened and breathless and _loud_ in the near-silence.

“Lean forward.”

And Victor complies—air leaving once more—and they begin to move together. Tonight, it’s a slow sort of movement, not frantic like some other nights. It isn’t methodical, a part of some bland routine, but it isn’t bestial either. It isn’t the sort of ferocity that Piers finds in his singing or Victor in his matches.

Soft, rough, tender, sweet even.

Tonight, it is all of those things.

And like the night, it eventually ends with the slight rush and warmth of their joined orgasms—Piers’s into the condom and Victor’s onto Pier’s stomach, white beads decorating paler skin.

Victor is sleepy afterwards, quite unlike his earlier impatience, but he is young still—not fully grown.

He doesn’t resist when Piers gently pulls him off, and carries him to the bathroom.

The rest of the night passes as a blur, a dreamlike existence, and it ends as it always does on these sorts of nights.

As the fan turns overheard, its tune constant, he sleeps encircled in arms of another.

*

The bed is empty when Victor wakes, but it doesn’t surprise him. Despite Piers’s appearance and his propensity for staying up pass midnight, he often wakes with the sun’s rising.

Sitting up, Victor blearily rubs his eyes and stretches before leaving the bed. He would wash the sheets later, after his morning preparations. On the way to the bathroom, he grabs his clothes from the chair near the window. The bathroom door locks with a near-silent click.

Facing the mirror, Victor examines his own appearance. His brown hair is mussed, and the bruise on his neck is a deep purple today. He would have to grab a scarf from his backpack before he leaves.

Victor reaches pass the hairspray can—Piers must have been in a rush if he hadn’t placed it back into its normal spot next to his other haircare products—and for the toothpaste and his own toothbrush. It is the blue one, not the purple that Piers prefers.

He brushes his teeth and washes his face before stepping into the shower and turning the knob. The water warms him and his sore muscles. Eventually he finishes and steps out. Today, he borrows one of Piers’s towels to dry himself, not that the man would mind.

He dries and then dresses himself, taking care to pull the collar of his shirt higher and to zip up his jacket. He doesn’t pull the zipper up all the way. He find it uncomfortable, preferring to leave it entirely open, but it is a compromise.

Eventually, he leaves the bathroom and then the bedroom and makes his way towards the kitchen. He can hear the sounds of cooking, and the smell of pancakes wafts.

He expects Piers to be there when he arrives, and he is.

However, he doesn’t expect to find Marnie seated at the table. Her Morpeko is buried within the fleece of his Dubwool, and their babble mingles with the sounds of the kitchen. From the living room, he hears the chatter of his Rillaboom, Inteleon, Toxtricity, and Obstagoon—Piers’s had a different inflection to his voice—and the banter of the television.

By the counter, he hears the click of the stovetop flame turning off.

“Hello, Victor.”

Her voice is placid as she speaks.

“You can ‘ave a seat if you want,” she continues, voice even despite the rush of panic within his own heart. He should speak, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he merely complies, pulling out a seat.

Piers places a plate in front of him, and Victor notices the bits of Oran Berry that peak from the thin cakes. By the pink of her pancakes, Marnie’s—much like her brother’s—has Pecha in hers.

“I let your Corviknight outside. He wouldn’t stop peckin’ the door ‘til I did.”

Piers’s words and voice are easygoing even if Victor notices the slight tensing of his wrists and the way his fingers taps at his thigh.

Worrisome, absolutely worrisome.

An awkwardness settles upon them until Marnie speaks. In her hand, she holds a fork, a bit of pancake stuck on the tines.

“Bro, can you get me my backpack? It’s in my room, by the dresser.”

There is a moment of hesitation before Piers complies and exits, leaving them alone together. From the living room, he can hear the beginnings of an argument among his Pokémon. Most likely, it is over the television channels again. Even as a Sobble, Inteleon has always loved his morning cook shows.

Victor starts first, “W-when did you get here?”

Awkward, so very awkward, but how else would one begin on a subject like this?

Marnie pauses before setting her fork back onto her plate.

“Last night. I forgot somethin’, and I have a key. I…uh…heard everythin’ if that’s what you’re askin’. Didn’t really want to bother you, but it was ‘ate, and I needed a place to sleep.”

A flush reaches Victor’s face, and he self-consciously pulls at the collar of his shirt. Unfortunately, his movement only attracts Marnie’s attention further, and she quickly turns toward her half-eaten pancakes. Scarlet dyes her cheeks as well.

Minutes pass in silence, and Victor wonders how long it would be before Piers returns. The house isn’t overly large nor are the corridors confusing.

Marnie breaks the silence first.

“I won’t say anythin’ if that’s your worry. I don’t really know what to think, but I know my Bro. He’s not the sort to intentionally hurt anyone.”

An awkward shuffle and silence then, only broken by the screech of his Obstagoon and the sound of a remote falling onto wooden flooring. Victor doesn’t quite know what to say, but he is, at the very least, glad.

Eventually Piers returns, Marnie’s backpack in hand. His shoulders are tense, and the grip he has on Marnie’s bag is tight. Victor notices the blue of Piers’s veins as his hands clench tighter.

“It’s your business. I won’t say anythin’,” she says. Her cheeks are still red.

There is visible relief in the air when she states that, and Piers’s shoulders relax. From the living room, Victor hears the apologetic tones of his own Pokémon and the annoyed grumbles of Piers’s Obstagoon. From the sounds of the scolding, the Pokémon had just returned from his errand.

Outside of a few more scuffles from the living room, breakfast continues in peace for the most part.

It’s nice.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually spent a considerable (for the subject matter) time on my research for this tbh. Ended up having to go through a few pages on nail length for guitarists (I wanted so badly for Piers to have longer nails on one hand, but it was unnecessary...), a few short workbooks on breathplay, and all that...ofc, I didn't go for super realism because this is my self-indulgent stuff, but I tried to an extent. Though that also meant I had to cut the idea of barebacking since it goes against one of the underlying ideas of the fic.
> 
> And tbh, I do like to think Piers has training when it comes to other instruments, not just his voice. The themes of this fic are actually "touch" and "voice." It's part of why so much emphasis is placed on the hands, sound, and the voice (or lacktherof).
> 
> Also I actually did have set heights for them. Piers stands at 6"0' feet exactly with 140 pounds (which puts him at a 19.0 BMI), and Victor stands at 5"2' feet with 110 pounds (20.0 BMI). It's a bit awkward when Victor's actually taller than me and weighs more tbh... And as a vaguely related note, I did actually do some research into other stuff like costs. If you ever want to know how much the lube Piers uses costs, it's roughly $40 and water-based. He can afford it with his albums probably.
> 
> And on the Marnie section, how else would you approach your friend and your brother having relations and being in the same house during? I would think it would be an incredibly awkward conversation. I think so anyway.
> 
> I also considered using my trainer's custom appearance, but I felt that that would have been too confusing, so I tried to mostly keep the default (with one added jacket).
> 
> Ah...I am disappointed there isn't more content on the Western side of fandom for the pair...I don't even know their ship name...


End file.
